“You must be joking.”
As Adam turns down the access road, avoiding the long line of traffic ahead, I realize he is, in fact, taking me to his father’s church.
On a Sunday morning.
“I am not,” he replies.
He reaches into his visor and pulls out a laminated card, rolling down his window as we pull up to a security station blocking the entrance to the back of the church.
“Morning,” he greets the guard waiting there.
“Morning, Mr. Goode,” the man replies. Adam waves his card at him while I try to duck down in my seat. As I sneak a peek through the window at the guard, he gives me a terse, furrowed glare.
“Morning, miss,” he says politely.
“Morning,” I chirp in response, trying to feign confidence, like I’m supposed to be here—which I’m not.
After a moment of clear hesitation, the man finally waves us through as the bar rises. Adam pulls into the massive parking lot behind the church.
“How on earth are we going to get through here unnoticed on a Sunday?” I ask.
Just as he pulls into the spot labeled A. Goode, he turns to me and gives me a devilish grin. “Who says I don’t want to be noticed? What’s he going to do? Beat me up in front of the congregation?”
My stomach turns as I imagine walking into that building. I haven’t been inside a church since I was thirteen and my aunt dragged me to Sunday school after I got in trouble at school for kissing a boy in the bathroom during PE.
She thought I needed Jesus. Like he could somehow make me not love making out so much.
It didn’t work. I ended up getting to second base with a boy in Sunday school instead.
“And where exactly are we going to film this video?” I ask.
Adam appears far too cocky about this and I’m slightly concerned that the wheels are coming off the tracks of this plan. As if his anger at his father is clouding his judgment.
“I have an idea…”
He opens his driver’s side door and hops out. Meanwhile, I take a long, heavy breath before following him. As we walk up to the back entrance of the church, I scurry along to keep up with him.
“Please tell me we’re not doing it on the altar during Sunday morning service,” I say.
He scans his card on the door lock and it unlocks with a click before he pulls it open.
“It’s called a pulpit, and no. I wish,” he replies with a laugh.
The inside of the church, from this perspective, seems more like an office building with doors on either side that are labeled Marketing Director, Treasurer, Outreach. The ceilings are enormous, giving the entry space alone a grand, larger-than-life sort of vibe.
It makes me instantly uncomfortable.
So far, there are no other people around, but I hear chatter in the distance. When we turn a corner at the end, I spot a group of people with headsets on who are dressed up for church but seem to be frantically speaking about something I can’t make out.
Adam grabs my hand and pulls me in the opposite direction.
Before long, we hear a “Mr. Goode!” in a woman’s surprised-sounding voice.
Adam turns around and waves toward them. “Morning, Beverly. Good luck with the service today.”
She hesitates, and I don’t need to turn around to know it’s me she’s looking at. What are the odds any of these people here have seen the videos of us going viral at the moment?
“Uh, thanks,” she calls out.
My hand squeezes Adam’s. I hate this. I want to leave right now.
He glances down at his watch and then back at me. He does a double take—and then he stops.
“What’s wrong?”
‘What’s wrong?” I shriek just above a whisper. “I don’t belong here, Adam. I feel like a freak, and I don’t like it.”
His expression softens as he pulls me down a hallway, pushing me toward the wall and stepping so close it makes it hard to breathe.
“It’s a church, Sage. Of course, you belong. Everyone does.”
“That’s what you think, Adam. You were practically born here. Not everyone feels the same sense of comfort in this place that you do.”
“Do you really not feel comfortable here?” he asks, like there’s something wrong with me. My temper rises.
“No. These people hate me, and I know, I know…that was sort of the point. But it doesn’t feel good to see the way they look at me.”
When he steps a little closer, he draws my attention out of my own head and onto him. I’m focusing on the planes of his chest in that tight shirt and the feel of his hands on my arms.
“Why do you give a fuck what these people think about you?” he asks.
“I don’t,” I stammer, looking down to avoid eye contact.
He puts a finger under my chin and lifts it until I’m staring into his eyes. Then he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out. His eyes search mine for a moment, and I’m waiting on bated breath for something, anything.
Finally, he quietly utters, “Take a deep breath.”
And I try to obey, pulling air into my lungs, although it feels heavy and difficult. When he sees me struggling, he says it again, this time with a deep, authoritative tone.
“Take a deep breath, Sage.”
I freeze, staring up at him with surprise. Suddenly, I’m able to pull long, slow breaths into my chest, and my panic slowly subsides.
It’s the first time Adam has ever commanded me like that, and I think it might be the first time I’ve ever obeyed anyone. But there was just something soothing and safe in his tone that made it almost impossible not to obey.
When he notices me starting to settle down, he leans closer and softly whispers, “I don’t think you’re a freak.”
“Yes, you do,” I reply with a laugh. “But I really don’t care what you think.”
As I smile up at him, he doesn’t return the expression. Then I regret saying it.
“You are not a freak,” he says, this time using that cool authority again. And like a fool, I start to believe it.
“Okay,” I reply, just to please him, hoping it means he’ll take the intensity of his gaze off my face.
“If you want to leave, we can.”
“No,” I reply. “Let’s get the shot you want to get.”
After a moment of hesitation, he grabs my hand and pulls me down the hall. There’s a murmur of voices in the distance, like a crowd of people creating a low hum of energy. We stop at an intersection of hallways, and Adam glances anxiously around before continuing straight ahead. As we reach a heavy wooden door, my stomach drops as I notice the name on the golden plaque above it.
Reverend Truett Goode.
Oh fuck.
My hand squeezes Adam’s as he pulls a set of keys out of his pocket, scanning the hallway one last time before shoving the key in the door and twisting it to unlock.
“How do you know he won’t be here?” I whisper.
“Because the service is set to start in thirty minutes. He’s in makeup.”
“Are you sure he won’t come back?” I sound panicked, mostly because I am panicked.
Adam glances my way and lets a playful smile tug at his lips. “Come on, Peaches. Live a little.”
Then the door opens and he pulls me inside. He turns and locks it behind us.
Truett’s office is ginormous. There’s a massive oak desk with ornate embellishments and a giant cross etched into the front. Behind the desk is a throne-like chair and a large framed photo of Jesus on the wall at the back of the room.
Adam rushes toward the desk, positioning himself behind it. “I want him to recognize his office, so maybe you can put your phone over there and record from an angle.”
I hurry and open the camera app, propping the phone on one of the heavy ornate chairs positioned in front of the desk. It puts Adam in plain view and Truett’s nameplate front and center on the desk.
And…well, Jesus.
Fuck, I’m going to hell in a handbasket.
Without thinking too much about it, I hit record and yank off my top, so I’m in just a bra and tight jean shorts. Adam’s eyes flicker down before he catches himself and looks back up at my face.
“Where do you want me?” I ask.
“Here,” he replies, gesturing for me to stand between him and the desk. At first, I’m facing him, breathing in the scent of his cologne and getting momentarily lost in the warmth of his honey-brown eyes.
He stares at me a moment before placing his hands on my hips and spinning me around.
“I’ll…fuck you over the desk like this,” he says, a tremor in his voice. Then he presses himself against my backside and heat assaults my core. It’s so fucking cruel that we can pretend to have sex so much but can never have any actual sex. We’ve just guaranteed ourselves three months of the worst blue balls in history.
As he moves to take off his shirt, I stop him. “Leave it on,” I say.
He pauses. “What? Why?”
“Because it’s hotter if I’m naked and you’re not.” With that, I reach back and try to unfasten my bra. When my fingers fumble for a second too long, his touch sends chills down my spine as he unclasps it himself. My bra falls to the desk, and I try not to think about it too long as I reach down and unbutton my shorts, shooting them down my legs.
My thong stays on, but as I check out the view on the camera, I realize it can be seen on the screen.
“You’ll have to take that off,” he mutters quietly.
We don’t have time to think too much about this or formulate a new plan. The sooner we get the shot, the sooner we can leave. So, I nod. My fingers tremble as I drag my underwear down my legs.
There’s something different about this time than last. For one, I feel much more exposed, and not just because I’m naked and bent over a desk, revealing everything for him.
But also because we’re in his domain. I’m the outsider here.
And most of all, I feel exposed because my feelings for Adam are changing too quickly. I’m afraid he can read the desire on my face. Like it’s written all over my body in the way my nipples pebble from the slightest touch and how my belly warms every time he looks at me. And how, right now, with him positioned behind me, and the very thought of him fucking me here and now, has me so aroused I’m afraid he can see it.
My fingers grip the desk as I lean over it, my belly touching the cool surface as my small breasts hover just above the various papers Truett has scattered across it. And the sound of Adam’s belt coming undone makes the pooling arousal even worse.
The silky fabric of his boxer briefs presses against my backside, and my fingers clutch the desk tighter. I wince as I imagine the mess I must be making there.
When we both glance at the camera screen, there’s a moment of awkward silence, because his boxer briefs can be seen clear as day.
“Should we change the angle?” he asks.
“No,” I reply without looking at him. “This angle is perfect.”
“You want me to take them off?”
“Just do it,” I say.
As he slides off his boxers, I glance at the screen to see just how hot and real it looks, but he’s still not pressed all the way against me.
“I’m going to get hard and I won’t be able to help it.”
“It’s fine,” I reply in a mumble.
“Are you sure?” he whispers. I can hear the concern in his tone.
“We’ve done worse already,” I reply. “Let’s just get the shot.”
He clears his throat. “Action.”
The camera timer beeps—three, two, one.
With that, we both start moving. He thrusts toward me, slamming his half-hard cock against my backside, and I moan with pleasure. But as his motion starts to pick up in speed and intensity, I start to feel more and more connected to him. With each thrust of his hips, my moans feel less and less like acting.
He’s not inside me and he’s nowhere near my clit, and still…something about this feels so good.
“Harder,” I say with a breathy yelp, and Adam slams against my backside with such force I knock a pile of papers onto the floor.
I squeeze my thighs together as I bite my lip to keep from embarrassing myself. It’s pretty obvious now how much I desperately need to get laid. I feel like I might come from some fake sex dry-humping, and that’s just humiliating.
But then his fingers dig deeper into my hips and the softness isn’t so soft anymore. He’s growing hard, and I can’t help but notice that the motion of his hips is taking on a less fake, more real rhythm.
My thighs clench even tighter.
“Go ahead, Peaches. Come on my father’s desk.” His voice is husky and strained.
“Yes,” I cry out, pressing my hips back toward him.
Suddenly, I feel his stiff length slide between my thighs, rubbing against my aching clit, and I let out a gasp and a moan that is very, very real.
Glancing up at the camera screen, I see his expression in the video. There’s a look of feral determination on his face. His grip on my hips tightens, and his breathing grows shallow with a grunt on every exhale.
“Keep going,” I whisper, clenching my thighs tighter around his cock.
“You’re so wet, Peaches,” he says with a growl, and I shamelessly drop my forehead against the desk as I thrust back against him. The moisture of my arousal coats his cock as he fucks the space between my legs.
And with every stroke against my clit, I grow closer and closer to my climax.
“Don’t stop,” I beg.
“Look at you,” he mutters through clenched teeth. “So fucking needy for my dick.”
I cry out louder at his filthy words. The muscles of my thighs burn as I squeeze them together, urged on by the hardening of his cock. Which means he’s about to come too.
With church music playing in the distance, we grind our bodies together until we’re both breathless and shuddering out our releases. He groans loudly as I feel his cock pulse against me, spilling his cum all over my legs and his father’s desk. My own climax drives pleasure into every extremity of my body.
For a few long moments, we stay in that position, recovering from the heat of the moment. When Adam releases his claw-like grip on my hips, I lift my head and stare directly at the video still recording on my phone.
As Adam snatches a tissue from the box on the desk, I reach over and grab my phone, stopping the recording. Still, it’s silent as he turns away from me and cleans himself up. After I do the same, I grab my clothes and start to redress.
Nothing about that quenched this new craving. Instead, I think it just made it worse.
Adam clears his throat and tosses the cum-stained tissue into the trash can in the corner of the room and then our eyes meet for the first time.
He opens his mouth to say something and I have no idea why I feel the need to speak before him. Maybe because I expect him to say he’s sorry and I don’t want to hear an apology. Nothing about what just happened requires one in my eyes.
“Well, the viewers are going to love that,” I say with a smile.
His mouth closes as he fights a smile. “You’ll have a lot of editing to do.”
With that, he pulls me toward the door. When I try to pick up the papers on the floor, he touches my shoulder.
“Don’t,” he says, “I want him to know we were here.”
“Oh, he’s going to know,” I reply with a laugh as I glance back at the mess we left on his desk.
